


men(both little and small)

by Miriam_Heddy



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:10:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4655562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/pseuds/Miriam_Heddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alan was out getting things for dinner, and due back shortly, and Don was apparently taking a shower before dinner, and so he decided to at least open the conversation. After all, his own car would be in the driveway, facilitating a quick exit should things go badly (and he already assumed they probably would, and was resigned to another night alone, though he did wonder whether he should wait until <i>after</i> dinner to broach the subject and so ensure that he at least got to eat whatever Alan was cooking tonight. He really <i>had</i> been looking forward to dinner and good conversation, though putting it that way, his plan seemed rather self-serving.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	men(both little and small)

_anyone lived in a pretty how town_

by e. e. cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town  
(with up so floating many bells down)  
spring summer autumn winter  
he sang his didn't he danced his did  
  
Women and men(both little and small)  
cared for anyone not at all  
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same  
sun moon stars rain  
  
children guessed(but only a few  
and down they forgot as up they grew  
autumn winter spring summer)  
that noone loved him more by more  
  
when by now and tree by leaf  
she laughed his joy she cried his grief  
bird by snow and stir by still  
anyone's any was all to her  
  
someones married their everyones  
laughed their cryings and did their dance  
(sleep wake hope and then)they  
said their nevers they slept their dream

| 

stars rain sun moon  
(and only the snow can begin to explain  
how children are apt to forget to remember  
with up so floating many bells down)  
  
one day anyone died i guess  
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)  
busy folk buried them side by side  
little by little and was by was  
  
all by all and deep by deep  
and more by more they dream their sleep  
noone and anyone earth by april  
wish by spirit and if by yes.  
  
Women and men(both dong and ding)  
summer autumn winter spring  
reaped their sowing and went their came  
sun moon stars rain  
  
---|---  
  
  


**I** n the cold light of morning—which was not actually all that cold as it streamed in past his stained glass window and cast yellow and green light upon his bed—Larry Fleinhardt decided that he was used to waking up alone, yes, and perhaps even resigned to it, but he was decidedly not _pleased_ by that state of affairs. Not that he had done much to alter the circumstances of his life toward any other end—not for some time, at any rate. He had, in fact, purchased a new mattress only last week, and lying back in the bedding store and testing a number of options, he'd come to realize that it was as good a commitment to a life of solitude as any he could imagine. Were he _involved_ in a relationship, he would have had someone with whom to debate the relative merits of firm versus less firm, steel coils versus those intriguing new foams on the market. But as it was, stretched out across one mattress after another, he measured the fit of each one solely against his own body, anticipating no other body beside him who might lie sleepless and disturbed by his eventual choice of the Tempur-Pedic over the rest of them. He recognized, of course, that he was succumbing to the advertising phrase "space age" and the promise that it was developed at NASA, and even the fact that he enjoyed saying, "visco-elastic" to himself as he lay there and bounced on it with the heels of his sneakers kicking the edge like a set of new tires. He considered that Charles, were he along on the trip, might well find the Sleep Number mattress appealing. Charles did love his little dials.

But he _was_ alone. And that was really something he needed to come to terms with.

At home, with the mattress covered in the new bedding he'd bought (another indulgence, again serving no tastes but his own), he shifted onto one side and then the other, trying to decide whether the confluence of NASA and Sweden was really worth the two grand he'd spent. Probably so. It _was_ comfortable. Decadent, even. The brochure had insisted that it absorbed motion so well that he wouldn't even feel his partner moving beside him, and he wondered whether he was likely to test that claim anytime soon, and decided it was unlikely, unless he lowered his standards considerably.

There were those who believed the primary problem in any successful courtship was the beginning—finding the most felicitous moment in which to initiate it. First impressions being what they were, that _would_ seem to make a certain amount of sense. But that _particular_ formulation of the problem presumed one was courting a relatively unknown subject—someone to whom you, yourself, were also unknown, with each person entering into the equation attempting to solve for the other, unknown quantity.

That, of course, in no way described the present situation. No—in his own case, it was far too late to worry about first impressions, and though he'd spent a good deal of time weighing various means and methods of making himself and his desires clear, he had yet to conclude that any one moment was likely to be better than any other. They all, in the vernacular, sucked about equally.

In the shower, then again while shaving, he agreed with himself that there were simply too many variables to consider. Human beings were far too complex to fit into any algorithm. Or rather, they _could_ be reduced and computed—and Charles certainly _was_ fond of doing so—but he personally didn't altogether find such mathematical means altogether _trustworthy_ as the sole basis for making such an important decision.

Of course, that could simply be cowardice talking.

Getting dressed—the khakis and green shirt or the khakis and blue shirt? Jeans? And what shirt?—he admitted that yes, he did admire Megan's work as a profiler, and wouldn’t dare dismiss the efficacy of her predictions. She and Charles both had demonstrated a high degree of success with that approach. It was apparently possible to predict the behavior of a psychopath with reasonable accuracy, and as they'd talked about that over their series of lunches, he'd considered asking her whether she believed that predictability was, in fact, part of the illness—perhaps even what distinguished such damaged lives. If the human brain were analogous to a computer (and he was thinking now of HAL, though of course he would have chosen another example to propose the question to Megan), insanity was often thought of as the thing which made the program unpredictable. The better metaphors were, perhaps, already in service. A mind gone off the rails.

Jeans and the white shirt, which of course was in the wash, so it had to be the blue shirt after all. And tennis shoes, of course. White ones.

Surely ordinary, sane people—and he counted himself among them, and usually considered Charles Eppes in that company as well—were not so bounded by routine as to be readily quantifiable, and so he had come to the tentative conclusion that it was possible to track (ah! And there again were the rails!) a psychopath _because_ the illness seemed to reduce the normal complexity of human behavior down to a smaller set of pathways. It had taken yet a third reading of the poisoner's Manifesto to come to this tentative hypothesis, and of course he was, admittedly, well outside his own area of expertise in speculating.

Looking at his own breakfast plate (which was pleasing aesthetically, though it might arguably be lacking in certain key nutrients), he decided not to engage the question after all. He already half-suspected that Megan's interest in him was at least partly clinical, which of course did not preclude it being other things as well, including sexual, and perhaps even romantic. That said, there was no reason to risk a diagnosis, especially if it _didn't_ seem likely to end well.

But what _was_ the ideal happy ending?

Charles and the Family Eppes seemed utterly convinced he was already well on his way to a state of matrimonial bliss with Dr. Wade, and he hadn't had a single good reason to disabuse them of that notion, though he wasn't actively encouraging it either. Frankly, he'd prefer that they quit speculating entirely, but given the paucity of their own romantic lives, he supposed gossip was inevitable. Anyone lived in a pretty how town and nobody was getting any.

Now where was _that_ from? He dismissed it, sure it would come to him eventually.

He took his penis in hand and gave it a tug, not sure whether he really was in the proper mood, but ever hopeful.

Megan wasn't at all unattractive. No—far from it. She was quite beautiful—a stunning example of the species Homo sapiens sapien. No—it was entirely the X factor, as he had come to clumsily define it. The thing of it was, women were _complicated_. And while he admired that complexity the way he admired the complexity of much of the Universe, a part of him (a lazy part, admittedly), much preferred the company of men. Even so, he was reasonably confident that the sex would be—if not perfect—then nothing to complain about (and really, who _would_ he complain to anyway? Charles? Now _that_ was unlikely).

But that was the crux of it. Men were _easier_. Easier to talk to, simpler to understand, less sensitive, less _demanding_. And they had penises, which he was admittedly fond of. Granted, one man in particular, with whom he already spent the greater part of his days, and without whom he had no idea _how_ he had ever lived, though he _had_ lived without him for decades, was anomalous in many ways, and yet… he was a man, and well equipped at that.

A very _attractive_ man.

He gave it another tug and gave up. Charles was too _young_. Young enough that, at that point in their relationship when he might have ordinarily felt they knew each other precisely the right amount to make sex inevitable, Charles had been far too young for him to even _consider_ making such a suggestion. He wasn’t even sure at the time about Charles' sexuality, and he wasn't sure that Charles himself knew, at that time.

Though once Charles was old enough that he felt it _was_ decent to consider asking, they'd somehow achieved a level of relationship inertia as to make it impossible to imagine disrupting it. And, ironically, he still wasn't at all sure Charles knew _what_ he really wanted in the way of interpersonal relationships.

Cummings. Now _why_ had he forgotten that? 

Comings and goings. Reaped their sowing and went their came.

What he really needed, he decided, was a participatory orgasm.

Instead, seeing as that wasn't likely at all, he went to work, which, as it was Saturday, meant not moving farther than his home office, and he spent the next five hours trying to talk himself out of confronting Charles with what he decided was an untenable situation. But by the time he pulled into the driveway, he had done precisely the opposite.

Alan was out getting things for dinner, and due back shortly, and Don was apparently taking a shower before dinner, and so he decided to at least open the conversation. After all, his own car would be in the driveway, facilitating a quick exit should things go badly (and he already assumed they probably would, and was resigned to another night alone, though he did wonder whether he should wait until _after_ dinner to broach the subject and so ensure that he at least got to eat whatever Alan was cooking tonight. He really _had_ been looking forward to dinner and good conversation, though putting it that way, his plan seemed rather self-serving.) 

He found Charles in the garage, convenient and yet absolutely inaccessible, and he couldn't say he actually had much of an appetite after all.

"Charles, I think we have a problem."

  
Charles did not turn as he entered the garage, but Larry took the slight lift of his shoulders as an invitation to come inside, and examined the chalkboard—or as much as he could see of it—over Charles' shoulders.

"We have many problems, Larry. Were you thinking of any one in _particular_?"

"Yes—a personal problem. A particular personal problem."

" _We_ have a personal problem?"

" _Don't_ we?"

"I really don’t know, Larry. You tell me. " Charles shook his head, and Larry watched the back of his shoulders for signs that the conversation was making any impression at all, but since he'd come in, Charles hadn't yet broken the rhythm of his writing on the board, the chalk tapping out short, staccato beats. Normally, it was music Larry would gladly listen to, often finding that Charles provided a soothing backdrop to his own thoughts.

  
Now, he was a little bit annoyed to find _himself_ reduced to background noise.

"Sex." 

He was pleased by the sudden ear-piercing scrape of the chalk on the board hitting a very wrong note.

"Sex?" Charles erased the errant stroke on the board with the side of his hand and continued writing, and Larry walked up right behind him and spoke over his shoulder, careful not to actually touch him or the board.

"Sex," he repeated. Though there were many euphemisms, there was something about the word itself that bore repeating. It was almost onomatopoeic—sibilant and succinct.

Charles' hand paused on the board. "Sex."

And Larry almost walked away and went home right then and there, because there was something unaccountably _arousing_ about getting Charles to say that word, regardless of his intent. It was really quite satisfying. But doing so would only assuage the problem temporarily.

Charles' hand curled just a bit more tightly around the chalk holder and he shook his head. "I think I can see where that might be _your_ problem, Larry, but I'm not sure how you see that as _our_ problem."

But Charles hadn't started writing again, which Larry took to be a hopeful sign.

"You _really_ can't?"

"Nooo… I really can't." Charles finished filling the one board and stepped over to the next, leaving Larry standing in front of a very interesting bit of mathematics that he recognized as part of Charles' recent research endeavors.

"This is intriguing."

And it was the right thing to say, because Charles turned toward him and grinned. "It is, isn't it?"

"It really is. Giving up on Amita certainly has freed you to invest your substantial ego in your work. You've made remarkable progress in a relatively short time."

"I haven't given up on Amita."

"Oh. My mistake." Larry shrugged, noticing that Charles had, as usual, ignored what he didn't want to hear.

"She gave up on me." Charles ran his hand through his hair, leaving a trail of chalk dust in his curls "But you're right—things are going well. Things are going really well. I can—" he tapped his temple, leaving a spot of chalk dust there as well— " _see_ it. Almost."

"It's always the part that eludes us that—"

"What?"

Larry turned on his heel and walked back over to the first blackboard. "I've been giving some thought to Adams' theory of the shoe event horizon."

"I'm not familiar with that one, Larry."

"Oh, well, it's not really a theory in the scientific sense."

"Adams identified Sirius B." Charles had turned from the board to lean against the edge of the desk he'd moved into the garage. He looked very thin—Larry noticed that, though he was sure he'd noticed it before. He wondered if it had anything to do with Amita—with trying to attract her or a result of losing her. Either way, Charles was still quite attractive, and Larry frowned, a bit self-conscious now of his own less than ideal physique.

Distracted as he was, it took a moment to realize that Charles had the wrong Adams in mind. "Well, yes. Walter Sydney Adams did identify the first white dwarf star, in—"

"1915. So he had a not-theory about… sex?"

"Walter _Sydney_ Adams?" Larry laughed. "Well, he _might_ have, but I don’t think he published it if he did. No—I was actually thinking of _Douglas_ Adams."

Charles' brow furrowed and Larry sighed.

"The novelist."

"Right. So what did _Douglas_ Adams have to say about sex?"

Larry put a hand to his forehead, belatedly realizing that he had chalk dust on it—he nearly always did--and probably looked ridiculous, though it wasn't as if it was anything Charles hadn't seen before and not been attracted to. Larry sighed and continued talking, though his heart really wasn't in it any longer. "Adams observed that depressed people look at their feet, and when they do so, they inevitably see their own shoes."

"With you so far. Should I be taking notes?"

"I can leave at any time, Charles." It was no idle threat, but Charles' grin made it hard to imagine doing so.

"No—this is _fascinating_."

Larry nodded, deciding to ignore the sarcasm. "So essentially, he goes on to a causal chain in which, seeing their shoes, they decide to buy new ones to cheer themselves up. And so Adams theorized—and again, I use that word loosely—that this could trigger an eventual economic collapse, as shoe demand would come to spur mass production, bringing with it a decrease in quality, and, eventually, economic instability on a planetary scale."

Charles laughed. "And this has something to do with _sex_?"

Larry faltered, suddenly wondering why Adams had seemed at all relevant. "Sex? No, I suppose it doesn't. But it reminds me that I do need new shoes. I've worn a hole in these, but I can't seem to give them up."

"Larry, you have two pair exactly like those."

"Not exactly."

_"Exactly."_ Charles shut his eyes. "No—you're right. Not exactly. One pair has blue paint stains on the soles and the other pair you have laced differently—crossed over instead of under."

Larry looked down and realized that Charles was right, down to the under-lacing on this pair. 

Charles opened his eyes and shrugged and turned the chalk over in his hands, and Larry walked over to him and reached out and brushed the chalk out of Charles' hair, ignoring Charles' startled expression and forcing himself not to linger any more than was necessary, holding up his palm so Charles could see the chalk dust on his fingertips. Charles looked puzzled, bringing one hand up to Larry's forehead, wiping away whatever chalk dust remained on his own forehead. Charles' hand drifted downward to brush Larry's cheek, and he held his breath, but then Charles took his hand away and blinked as if suddenly waking up.

Larry spoke softly, choosing his words carefully now. "Charles, did it ever occur to you that it's a bit strange that you _know_ this about my shoes?"

"I see you a lot, Larry. I see your _shoes_ a lot." Charles sounded like he was trying not to sound defensive, and Larry nodded, understanding that and wanting to make this easier, not entirely sure how to go about that.

"Yes, but the important question is, do you _like_ my shoes?"

"I think you have excellent taste in sneakers."

Larry felt the brief moment of optimism leave him, and he was again resigned to how this would end. "Charles, I think you spend entirely too much time looking down."

Though at that moment, Charles wasn't looking down, and when he stopped smiling, Larry did as well, though they stayed there, watching each other warily, until there was a knock on the door, freeing them both to look away.

Don entered the garage, not surprisingly oblivious to any tension there, or more likely, attributing it to professional issues, of which they had more than several. "Hey, Larry—you staying for dinner? Dad just got back with hamburger. He says he's making his onion soup mix burgers, but I don't remember him buying any onion soup, so it might just be burgers."

"That sounds fine, Don," Larry nodded. 

Charles glanced over at Don and then back at Larry, and Larry looked down at his shoes, kneeling down to tighten the laces on one of them, which conveniently brought him out of the line of sight between Charles and Don, but inconveniently brought him eye-level with Charles' zipper.

"Yes, Larry's staying."

"Well, okay, you two keep working then. What is _that_?" Don pointed at the boards and then shook his head. "No—" Don chuckled. "Don't tell me. You—Larry—you want yours pink in the middle?"

"Yes, thank you, Don. That'd be fine." Larry looked up and Don nodded, clapping his hands together. 

"Good. You want beers, you know where they are. I think you've got another half an hour at least. Dad can't find the matches _or_ the charcoal."

"On top of the refrigerator," Charles said, and Larry thought that it really was remarkable the way life moved on around them. Burgers were prepared, shoes tied. All of it mundane, none of it truly satisfying.

"The charcoal? Charlie, I think I would have seen that."  
  


"The matches, Don. I haven't seen the charcoal in at least a week. Are you sure we're not out?"

Don shook his head. "You think it's in here somewhere?"

"No. It's not here. I think we might have used the last of it last month at the thing—the—"

"You might be right about that. Okay. I'll tell him. But hey—look around, just in case."

And then they were alone again, and Larry sat down on the floor, deciding he might as well tighten the other lace while he was at it.

Charles joined him there, sitting cross-legged and resting his hands on his knees. "Look, Larry, I think you're making something out of—"

"Nothing?" Larry finished retying the laces and drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on his knees.

"You're seeing Megan."

"I think I've said all I'm going to say about that."

"Because of this?"

"I thought you aren't willing to admit that _this_ exists."

Charles looked troubled, and Larry felt bad about that, but only a little. 

"Charles, honestly, I'm sympathetic to your desire to avoid the obvious, but I have to confess that for _me_ it _has_ become a problem. And I presumed, perhaps incorrectly, that that made it _our_ problem, though I might be wrong, and if I am, I suppose I'll just… buy more shoes."

"How—" Charles looked up at the blackboards as if they revealed answers to this as well. "Maybe… we should stop working together—just for awhile. Until this…."

"Are you suggesting this because you think that my feelings will change?Because I have to be honest with you and say that I very much hope that they don't. I don't think they will."

"Larry—" Charles frowned. "We can't—I _don't_ … I'm sorry. But I'm glad that you—that you brought it to my attention."

Larry nodded and tried not to take that as impersonally as it sounded. He got up and held out a hand to Charles, who offered him a weak smile and took it, getting up off the floor. Despite the missing pieces, what was left allowed them to function anyway. He'd counted on that. "I'm sure your father hasn't put the burgers on yet."

"No—It's—you should stay."

"Charles, I really do think it would be easiest if I left now. We can talk about this—or not talk about it—some other time."

"I'll see you Monday?"

"Of course, Charles. I hardly think we can avoid each other that easily." It was a lie, and Charles had to realize that. The school was admittedly small, but with a little effort, he could establish distance between them. It would mean losing things he'd come to hold dear—not just Charles himself, but those parts of his life bound up with the mathematics department—committees and competitions that they tended to enter as a pair. They were both signed up to judge the programming contest, and he'd been looking forward to that. But it would leave him more time for his own research, which he had been neglecting of late, given the steadily increasing demands of Charles' consulting work on his own time. He would miss this as well—time spent with Charles' family. Alan had always been a good friend, and he'd come to think of Don as one as well, in his own way.

Charles nodded and Larry waited and then finally looked down, and Charles did as well.

"I'll be needing my hand, Charles." Goodbyes were always awkward. Why was that? Perhaps that's why he so often ended a day's work with Charles by sleeping in the guest room at the Eppes house, which allowed them to resume their work first thing the next morning. He would miss that as well, miss knowing only a wall separated him from Charles. Though he consoled himself with the fact that he did have a new bed, now, and that was something. The guest room had never been all that comfortable.

"Larry, this is—" 

He nodded, hoping Charles would have the sense to not say anything more, and Charles didn't complete the thought, instead leaning forward, and Larry shut his eyes and felt the briefest brush of Charles' mouth on his cheek. He sighed, telling himself it was foolish to have hoped for something else.

"I'll be going."

"Right."

He squeezed Charles' hand and Charles looked down and at last let go.

On the drive home, Larry realized he hadn't said anything to Alan or Don, though he knew that Charles would express his regrets, as well as he understood them.

The rest of the day and the next stretched out long and dark, and he spent a good deal of it in bed, reading.

 

* * *

Monday came to pass, and he somehow managed to immerse himself in work sufficiently to almost ignore the desire to check in on Charles, who, after all, had his own work to occupy him. Twice, he looked up from reading filled with absolute certainty that Charles was in the room with him, and once, he actually started talking, about to ask Charles for advice on a particularly sticky problem, only to see he was speaking to his own jacket hung across the room, its slumping shoulders suggestive of a person but, once he looked closely at them, entirely empty.

When he looked in the mirror, he saw that same hollow shape, and avoided looking in the mirror for the rest of the day, stopping at the cafeteria for a donut and coffee, taking them back to his office in the interests of avoiding a chance encounter with Charles.

Still, he lingered for a few moments in the hallway, until he saw that he was doing it and felt utterly foolish. Charles had every reason to avoid him, and it was, he realized, entirely sensible that he do so.

After all, this separation would, in the long view, do neither of them much good professionally, so it was in both their interests that Larry Fleinhardt regained his senses as soon as possible when it came to Charles Eppes. Professor Eppes, he decided to call him, privately, deciding that the moniker was a fruitful reminder that Charles was now a colleague, nothing more.

* * *

But by Friday, he was beginning to worry, and considered calling the Eppes household in order to establish that Charles—Professor Eppes—had, in fact, been at work that week. It was simply astonishing that, despite every effort he made to sabotage his own avoidance of the man, he had yet to accidentally run into him even once.

He did see Amita in the commons area, and waved at her, and she stopped to chat with him, but he fumbled the question, interrupting her to ask, "How's Charlie?" to which she quite reasonably frowned, looking down at her shoes—a very nice pair of pumps that looked both expensive and uncomfortable—and shrugged. 

"I suppose he's fine."

"Yes, yes, of course," he agreed, promising himself he was not going to ask her when she last saw him, and so changed the subject to graviton theory, which she greeted with some relief, meeting his eyes again and expounding at length about her interest, her enthusiasm for the subject reminding him of Charlie—Professor Eppes— when _he_ had begun his studies, and something of his thinking must have shown in his expression, as she trailed off and went quiet, though he was used to that as well, patting her on the elbow and accepting her promise that they would have coffee next week.

* * *

The gaps I mean,

No one has seen them made or heard them made,

But at spring mending-time we find them there.

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;

And on a day we meet to walk the line

And set the wall between us once again.

We keep the wall between us as we go.

To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

And some are loaves and some so nearly balls

We have to use a spell to make them balance:

'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'

We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

Oh, just another kind of out-door game,

One on a side. It comes to little more:

There where it is we do not need the wall:

He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

My apple trees will never get across

And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.

—Robert Frost.

Saturday morning, the phone rang, and it was Megan. He was still in his bathrobe, and pulled it shut, tying it with one hand as he listened to the problem.

"Of course—yes, I'll read it and offer what I can, but you really—yes, I suppose I can, yes. It's… eleven o'clock already? Yes. I'll be there."

He checked his email, reading the file over his second cup of coffee, showered and got dressed, grabbing clothing at random and yet somehow ending up in the very same outfit he'd worn last Saturday, blue shirt and blue jeans. He considered intentionally choosing the white shirt, which was clean this time, but then didn't. And he put on the tennis shoes with the overlacing, wondering what Charles might say about that, or if he would even notice.

He hadn't asked Megan if Charles would be there. He didn't dare speculate, knowing it was possible that he wouldn't be.

But of course he was there, sitting at Don's desk, his shoulders hunched, Don hovering behind him with one hand on his shoulder.

"Professor Fleinhardt!"

Megan's warm voice at his side forced him to turn away from his study of Charles, who looked fine, just fine. He hadn't shaved that morning, clearly, and his face was darkly shadowed, which made him look a bit older. But he really was quite—

"Larry? Are you alright?" Megan's voice was hushed and he nodded, realizing that he was still watching Charles.

He turned away. "Sorry—I was just thinking about this case. It's really quite fascinating. Your murderer's interest in astrology is unusual—"

"How so?" Don came up behind him and he startled, turning slightly and accepting the cup of coffee Don held out to him. "Looks like we have another Zodiac Killer."

Larry shook his head. "Decidedly not, I'm happy to say. True, the astrology connection, and his insistence on finding meaning in what are, after all, random events, suggests that, like the Zodiac Killer, your man—" Larry paused and looked over at Megan, who nodded.

"It's unlikely it's a woman at this point. So, you were saying… unlike the Zodiac Killer?"

"Yes, this man seems to harbor a rather strange fascination with Johannes Kepler, who as you may know, is often considered the first theoretical astrophyicist—"

"Though Carl Sagan called him the last scientific astrologer." Charles had joined them, and Larry nodded.

"Where _would_ we all be without the scientific method? His mother—well, it seems she was responsible for introducing young Johannes to the stars. One really has to wonder what she might have achieved in her own right had the times allowed a woman to pursue…well, in any case, she was reputed to be involved in witchcraft, which, at the time, might well have been an accusation derived from her intellectual abilities. Speculation of course, but can you imagine the frustration, and yet also the satisfaction she must have taken in introducing young Johannes to his first lunar eclipse, knowing he would go on to do what she couldn't? Did you know he actually came to publish a monograph on the origins of snowflakes? In 1611. A remarkable achievement, though of course he never was able to fully explain the relationship between the cold and snowflakes' hexagonal shape."

"And this is relevant to the case?" Don pressed, impatient, as always. Not that Larry blamed him. Still, it was a fascinating story, and one that, regardless of his intent, took some time to elaborate to an audience of novices.

"Well, yes, Don, actually it is relevant, not only because your killer mentions his mother in nearly every paragraph, suggesting—and here, Megan, perhaps you could confirm this? But I was reading that as an indication that he identifies himself not only with Kepler's theories but with his life, and perhaps that might be an avenue to explore in seeking him out. I brought with me a biography of Kepler—" 

He found it in his bag and held it out to Don, but it was Megan who took it, and he suspected that it was unnecessary as they would likely find all they needed to know online. He did use the internet for quick fact-checking, but overall, he preferred the tactile thoroughness of a good book, especially this one, which was particularly well-written.

Megan smiled at him encouragingly and he realized they were waiting for him to continue, which he did, "As for the monograph on snowflakes, the diagrams in your subject's notes are all embedded hexagons, which I see your experts assumed to be an occult reference, but I suspect are a simply an allusion to Kepler's fascination with the crystallization of water. Did you notice his obsession with the letters H and O? Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink."

And now Megan was beaming at him. "All that in an hour's time? I'm _impressed_ ."

He looked away, accidentally catching Charles' eyes and noticing that he was also looking pleased. "Well, thank you. I admit that I haven't managed to decrypt the second layer of his notes, but I suspect Charles can—"

Charles stepped in, rubbing his hands together and gesturing towards the computer. "I was working on that, actually. Take a look at this, Larry. I think you're absolutely right."

Larry followed Charles back to his computer and looked over his shoulder as he typed. "Yes, that's—interesting. The Zodiac Killer used homophonic substitution—"

"And _he_ did as well. But, take a look at _what_ he wrote."

Larry chuckled. "Neo-Pythagorean Metageometry. _Well_ , I revise my opinion of him decidedly downward."

Charles turned around and grinned at him and patted Larry on the hand. "Don't be so disappointed. It's still interesting."

"But this is _nonsense_ ."

"Well, just because nobody's spent the time on it doesn't mean it wouldn't prove fruitful to do so." Charles was baiting him, grinning, and he laughed.

"You have _got_ to be _kidding_ ! Charles, it's—well, I suppose mental masturbation has its place," he acknowledged, and, hearing Megan clear her throat, he realized he'd just said that aloud, and to _Charles_ of all people.

"Charlie, what—what's this about Pythagoras? He's the triangle guy, right?"

Charles looked over at Don, and Larry sighed with relief.

"Don, yes, the Pythagorean Theorem holds that the square described upon the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle is equal to the sum of the squares described upon the other two sides. Though the theorem itself was actually known to the Egyptians, who used it to build the pyramids, and the Chinese as well. But Pythagoras is attributed with the first geometrical demonstration of it—"

"Which is another way of explaining cultural bias," Larry added, and Charles frowned.

"Maybe—and we can argue about that later. But the key here—and we shouldn't forget this—is that your guy is out of his _mind_ . He's obsessed with Kepler—"

"Particularly with ice crystals, which is an odd choice—" Larry added.

"But—Larry-- that makes sense in terms of what he's doing—or what he _thinks_ he's doing."

"Right," Don looked annoyed. "Well okay. Let's get to that. What's he _doing_ , Charlie, besides killing people? Because all I've got is five dead bodies left all over the city."

Charles frowned, and looked at him once more and then turned back to Don, and whatever had passed between them was gone before Larry could work out what it was, or if it was just his imagination.

"Don, your killer's a fan of Kepler, but more importantly, he's a Fritz Leiber fan."

"Wait—the science fiction writer?" Megan leaned over the desk, her arm brushing against Larry's own, and he glanced down at Charles, who frowned but continued talking, and Larry wondered again whether the frown _meant_ something, and whether he had been reduced to the very level of superstitious insanity they were now tracking.

"Yes, Megan, right, except Lieber was, like L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of a pseudoscience—a fictional philosophy grounded in a mathematical theorem--which in this case amounts to something that's not a religion to anyone but your believer."

"So what's the theory here?"

Charles went quiet, leaving it to Larry to try to explain what was, essentially, nonsense. "Your father might find this interesting, because Lieber's ideas have a bearing on urban planning, specifically on a belief that there are—I believe he called them 'paramentals' in his books—gathering in large cities as a result of the placement of buildings—the steel in them apparently acting as some sort of divining rod of sorts for evil energy. Lieber's character, DeCastries? I believe your murderer mentions him at one point, described cities as tombs."

Megan thumbed through her pile of papers and pointed at one sheet she'd highlighted, reading aloud from the manuscript. "Since we modern city-men already dwell in tombs, inured after a fashion to mortality, the possibility arises of the indefinite prolongation of this life-in-death. Yet, although quite practicable, it would be a most morbid and dejected existence, without vitality or even thought, but only paramentation, our chief companions paramental entities of azoic origin more vicious than spiders or weasels."

Don shook his head. "Spiders and weasels? I don’t get it. How does this help?"

Charles waved his hand at the computer. "Well, the important part is the solution to fighting these spirits or whatever they are—"

"Paramentals," Larry offered.

"Your killer's operating under the belief that he can foretell the future by—and here's the strange thing. In the book, a megalopolisomancer—a fortune teller—used the placement of large buildings which acted as weight, with placing certain sigils—except I'm not sure what a sigil is."

Larry cleared his throat. "A sign or amulet."

"That would be the bodies, then, which I think he thinks must be levers to move a fulcrum."

"And he needs a fulcrum because?" Don asked, his brow furrowing.

Megan nodded. "To focus the paramentals. No—this makes sense. It falls into a pattern of thinking we've seen before. Delusions of grandeur. Our killer very likely has convinced himself that he's doing the right thing—that these deaths are necessary for some higher purpose."

Charles nodded. "But what we don't know is how many signs—bodies—he needs. He could be done."

Megan shook her head. "No—I don't think so."

Larry looked over at the computer again and Charles turned toward him. "I don't think we need metageometry, Charles. I think we can apply basic logic to this problem. After all, he isn't _using_ math in any rational way. He's using…." Larry stopped, because he wasn't sure, but Charles blinked at him and then suddenly smiled.

"Snow."

"Charlie, there's no snow in Los Angeles."

"No, Don, but there _is_ water, and look—hexagons. Water. Tall buildings. Look—"

Charles got up and ran to the map, on which Don had already marked the bodies—where they'd been dumped, all of them just outside skyscrapers with no apparent connection to one another.

"I see buildings, Charlie. What am I looking for here?"

But Charles had a marker out and had started to draw lines, connecting the body dumpsites with the nearest bodies of water, creating a neat, six-sided shape, and then another.

"Hexagons," Megan said, and Larry nodded.

" _Embedded_ hexagons, yes. And he still has one more body to dump. Here. Tomorrow night, if the pattern holds, as it has so far." Charles pointed at the map, and then went silent, as they all noticed that nowhere in their analysis had they provided any clues to prevent the last murder, though Larry wondered if Keplers' biography might help with that.

"So we set up a stakeout, catch him dumping the body. Stop him."

Larry admired Don his pragmatism, realizing that he couldn't begin to imagine being able to so easily set aside the grief that he knew was now quietly consuming Charles's sense of accomplishment.

"Thanks guys. You did good." Don clapped Charles on the shoulder and Charles nodded, still staring blankly at the red dot on the board—a death he'd predicted, which he was sure to see as something he should be able to prevent.

"Larry, is he going to be—"

"I'm sure he'll be fine, Megan. We need to look more closely at the biographical connection—at Kepler's life story. If your killer has in any way modeled himself on Kepler—"

"I'll get a team of people on that, Larry. And we'll check in with you. But—should I have a little talk with him?"

"Charles?" Larry considered that, deciding that, for all that it might help, Charles hadn't asked for help, and would likely take affront at the suggestion that he needed any. "I don't think that would be helpful. I'll—I'll talk to him."

"I'm sure you'll take care of him." Megan nodded and walked over to Charles, saying something softly that Larry couldn't catch, and Charles smiled at her, an unconvincing smile as she left the room to catch up with Don. They had a stakeout to arrange, and David and Colby, out interviewing possible witnesses to the body dumps would need updating. Larry suspected that Lieber's name wouldn't even come up, nor Kepler, and decided that made sense for practical reasons, though they were the only thing that made this killer seem to be more than he really was—a deluded fool whose obsession had led him to manufacture evidence in the pursuit of an inaccessible goal.

It all sounded terribly familiar, and he wondered suddenly if Megan recognized just how much he _did_ care about Charles. She was perceptive, and he was apparently not terribly good at hiding his affection anymore, though perhaps he never really had been.

Larry gathered his jacket and bag and walked over to Charles, planning to offer him a ride home, but suddenly losing powers of speech as Charles put his arms around him and hugged him, patting his back in warm circles.

"Charles, this really isn't a good—"

But Charles let go of him, and Larry realized that, objectively speaking, the hug had taken mere seconds, and would probably have drawn no notice or suspicion—just a greeting between two men who hadn't seen each other for a time. A week, Larry reminded himself. It had only been a week. But Charles looked different, somehow.

"Do you need a ride home?"

"Yes. Thanks."

On their way to the parking garage, Larry noticed that even as he worked to keep his distance, Charles' shoulders would periodically brush against his own, their hands brushing and pulling away, like two men who had been up to a long night of drinking.

"Tired?"

"Exhausted, Larry." And he slumped into the bench seat, rubbing his eyes, allowing Larry to see that he did look horrible, though it was relative, as Larry was still utterly taken by him.

"You should sleep."

Charles nodded and shut his eyes, and when Larry next looked over at him, Charles was dozing, his head resting against the closed window, his mouth open slightly. He mumbled in his sleep and Larry sighed, rolling down his own window, driving slowly and taking the longest possible route he could think of that didn't mean actually doubling back. He prolonged the drive for well over an hour before turning toward the Eppes house, reluctantly. He turned down the radio so that the jazz was a murmur drowned out by the wind, wanting to let Charles sleep—wanting to keep him close.

* * *

The gaps I mean,  
No one has seen them made or heard them made,  
But at spring mending-time we find them there.  
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;  
And on a day we meet to walk the line  
And set the wall between us once again.  
We keep the wall between us as we go.  
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.  
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls  
We have to use a spell to make them balance:  
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'  
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.  
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,  
One on a side. It comes to little more:  
There where it is we do not need the wall:  
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.  
My apple trees will never get across  
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.  
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.

—Robert Frost

As they pulled into the driveway, Charles opened his eyes, blinking wearily. "Thanks. Sorry."

"No—don't apologize."

"I spent the night thinking about this case, and I just couldn't—I couldn't put the pieces together. I don't know why."

Larry ignored the disappointment, telling himself that it was silly to imagine that he himself had been responsible for Charles' haggard appearance.

"I'm glad Megan asked you in today. Larry—I thought about calling—I really did."

Larry didn’t respond, not sure quite what to say.

"We worked well together. Don't you think?"

"Charles—of _course_ we did. But that doesn’t—"

"Change anything. No—you're right. I just thought maybe it meant the problem—"

"It's still a problem, Charles. And I am sorry about that." Larry shut his own eyes, then, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine coming through the windshield. He hadn't been sleeping all that well himself, though the bed was indeed perfect after all, if a bit too large.

"Larry…." 

Charles' voice was soft, and Larry felt him moving on the bench seat, and felt the brush of his hand touch Larry's own. He took what was offered and held Charles' hand, the familiar gesture still platonic, he supposed, though he wished it were otherwise. In some cultures, male friends did hold hands. Though probably not often in the front seats of classic Fords.

The sun turned the inside of his eyelids a dull orange, and he nearly dozed off, but then felt Charles slip his hand away and heard a string of curses, the passenger door slamming shut hard enough to make him a little angry at Charles' carelessness. But when he opened his eyes and looked around, Charles was gone, and he got out of the car himself, seeing nothing but hearing conversation coming from inside the house—male voices, indistinct but _loud_. 

And then what sounded like a crash and then _very_ loud conversation, and a third voice, and that didn't sound promising at all. Don had apparently beaten them home, perhaps to talk to his father about urban planning.

He stood in the driveway with his car door open, considering the advisability of leaving without finding out what had happened, but then Alan came outside.

"Larry— _you_. Come here a minute."

Larry shut the door reluctantly, every instinct suggesting that flight was entirely the _right_ thing to do, but walking over to Alan, noticing that he had lighter fluid and an electric lighter in his hand. Larry watched as Alan doused the grill with the lighter fluid. He had apparently bought more charcoal, as it glistened wetly.

Charles came outside, then, looking chastened, a slight flush coloring his face. "Larry, I just had to—"

"It's alright, Charles. I'm sure that whatever misunderstanding—"

"I think we all understand one another here." Alan chose that moment to punctuate his understanding by lighting the grill, and Larry stepped back at the sudden wave of heat, though he was too far away to be endangered by it.

"Perhaps not a mis—"

"You're too old for him." Alan's voice was hard, brooking no argument, and Larry opened his mouth to argue anyway.

Charles was standing right _there_ , and Larry felt the heat rise to his face.

"Y'know, Alan, I waited ten years to _avoid_ this particular conversation, and I don't particularly intend to have it now." He spoke softly, and pointedly didn't look at Charles, afraid of what he might see there.

"Did you now," Alan murmured, and Larry realized he'd just said something he'd had no intention of revealing. Ten years. A lie, really. It was more like fifteen years, hard as that was to admit even to himself.

"And I suppose, Professor Fleinhardt, you think age is relative?" 

"Actually, time _is_ relative, so arguably…."

"Offering physics up to obscure the issue does not change the facts." Alan picked up his tongs and poked at the fire with a surprising amount of menace for someone Larry had always considered a gentle, reasonable man.

"Physics doesn’t obscure. It clarifies," he clarified, more than a little annoyed.

"Not the way you use it, Mister."

And was Alan smiling? Larry really couldn't tell. His head was starting to ache, and he was peripherally aware of Charles, looking deeply disturbed, his hair seeming to glow slightly and shift, like Medusa, though that might have been the heat coming from the grill in waves that were starting to make him feel vaguely faint. He really hated this sort of argument, and had purposefully done everything possible to avoid it, including not divulging his attraction to Charles for quite some time, exhibiting remarkable self-control which he now regretted, as what, precisely, had it gotten him besides insult and aggravation?

"Dad, I really think Larry's—"

"No—" he held up a hand to Charles, waving aside his assistance. "I can handle this myself."

"Dad, Larry, there really _is_ nothing to han—"

"Charlie, go inside and help your brother prep the meat while I talk to your little friend."

"Larry's not my—"

"I'm sure he means that descriptively and not pejoratively, Charles. It's fine. We're all calm here." Though after Charles left, he was apparently going to have to calmly punch Alan on the nose, a fact which gave him no particular joy, as it was likely that Charles would never forgive him.

"Yes, Charlie. Everybody here is calm. Go inside. Help Don get dinner ready."

Larry nodded to Charles, who looked truly miserable, as well he should considering there was no call for saying whatever he'd said to his father to precipitate this. Though it suddenly occurred to him that Alan might have seen them holding hands and… now _that_ was a problem. He didn't suppose the "some cultures" argument would go over very well.

He waited until Charles had gone inside.

" _Little_ friend? What _is_ that?"

Alan shrugged. "It slipped out. And I'm sorry about that."

  
"As well you should be." The urge to hit Alan had thankfully subsided somewhat, but the urge to leave had not, and he glanced over at his car. "I don't know what, precisely, Charles said in the heat of the moment, but I'm sure—"

"He told me you and he were… involved. You certainly _looked_ involved."

"As colleagues, and friends, _certainly_ , and nothing more than that."

Alan's look of skepticism suggested he was a ways from being convinced.

"I give you my word that my intentions… well, I think you know I would do nothing to compromise him or his work or his happiness. You know that. He was upset about the case."

Alan nodded. "I know that."

"You _do_?"

"I do."

"Then pardon me, but why are we _here_?"

"I'm grilling steaks."

"And me, apparently." Larry rubbed his temples, the headache worsening.

"You need aspirin for that?"

"I— no—but thank you for your concern. I'll just be going now. To the car. Home."

"Charlie? When you come out here, Larry needs something for his head." Alan roared, and Larry winced, realizing that Alan was assuming, probably correctly, that Charles was listening to their conversation from inside.

"I really don't need anything, Alan. In fact, I think I should leave now and—"

"Leave? Why leave? The steaks will be done, we'll eat, we'll talk—"

"There's nothing to talk about. Charles made himself entirely clear and I have no plans to pursue the matter further. I just—I want to go home." The whine in his voice was unattractive, but he couldn't control that now, and also realized he had as much as admitted to desiring Alan's son.

Alan's eyebrows were raised and again, Larry again thought he saw traces of a smile on Alan's face, though it could have been a trick of the flickering light. Though he noticed the flames on the coals had died down somewhat and the coals themselves were already turning white at the edges. "You're going to take no for an answer?"

"No _is_ an answer." Larry blinked and rubbed his eyes. The heat from the grill was making them tear up a bit.

"You waited twenty years to ask the question and you're giving him twenty seconds to come up with an answer? Does that make sense to you because it sure doesn't from where I'm standing."

"Alan, I think I said _ten_ years—at least I hope I did—and there are ethical considerations that make it difficult for me to even _begin_ to respond to that question, but I'll go as far as to say that yes, I do believe that Charles is fully capable of making his own decisions regarding his personal li—"

"If he was, he'd be married by now, or—whatever it is you two plan on being to one another."

Larry opened his mouth to rebut and found he had nothing whatsoever to say. Alan often had that effect, though Larry usually didn't find himself at _quite_ this kind of disadvantage.

"Larry, my youngest son is inside at the moment rubbing the steaks, and _you_ are going inside to get a beer and some aspirin. And I need a potholder—the one by the sink."

  
"By the sink." Larry rubbed at his forehead, stepping away from the grill, which helped a bit.

"Charlie knows which one. So go. You look like you're going to faint, and I don't think Charlie would be happy if that happened."

Larry nodded, going, and deciding that it was a very strange thing indeed that he felt he'd somehow been returned to early adolescence by a man he counted as a friend, and who he had always assumed would greet his interest in Charles with some worry, if not outright hostility.

He wandered inside and found Charles with his hands covered in pepper, trying to look like he had not just been listening. He was drinking a beer and looking flushed and holding out two aspirin, which Larry took and swallowed, dry, shutting his eyes for a moment but then opening them again.

"Charles Edward Eppes, what in the _heavens_ did you _say_ to put your father in that state?"

Charles frowned, leaning against the sink. "I presented it as a hypothetical problem."

"Hypothetical? Well that would explain the volume and the crash. What _was_ that?"

"Dad knocked some things over."

"Better them than me, I suppose."

Charles frowned. "Normally, I would have asked _you_ for advice, but obviously…"

"I have a vested interest in the outcome."

"I think I could still use your advice."

Larry leaned against the refrigerator and sighed. "Wash your hands. Please."

" _That's_ your advice?" Charles smiled softly and Larry nodded.

"For the moment, yes."

Charles washed his hands, and Don came out from wherever he had been hiding with an inscrutable expression on his face that Larry suspected he used in the interrogation booths.

"Give me the steaks, Charlie. I'll take them outside."

Charles moved aside, inconveniently bumping into Larry's arm, which caused him to promptly spill half his beer down the front of his shirt, soaking it thoroughly.

Don rolled his eyes. "Nice one."

"Thank you." Larry suddenly remembered the potholder Alan had asked for. "Your father needs a potholder."

Don shook his head. "No he doesn't. He has another one he uses for the grill."

"A clever ruse designed to get me inside," Larry mused.

"Yeah. Real clever. You'd almost think you _wanted_ to come in here and talk to Charlie." Don observed a bit too knowingly, leaving with the steaks before Larry could respond.

He leaned back against the fridge again, wincing at the pull of his wet shirt across his chest.

"C'mon upstairs, Larry. I'll get you another shirt."

"I'm fine. I can change when I get home."

"You're staying for dinner, so come on and stop being so stubborn."

Larry looked outside and saw that Alan was still blocking his access to the car. And though he could _walk_ home, he would only have to come back for the car anyway. He followed Charles upstairs to his bedroom, stopping just outside and watching as Charles opened drawers until he found what he was looking for.

"Here."

Charles tossed him a t-shirt and leaned against his bedroom door, and Larry turned toward the hallway bathroom, annoyed to find Charles following him.

"I think I have suffered enough humiliation today without your joining me, so if you'll kindly step outside while I urinate?"

Charles frowned at him and looked hurt and Larry sighed, shutting the bathroom door, removing his wet shirt and wetting a towel to clean the beer from his chest and belly before putting on Charles' clean t-shirt.

And in the interest of honesty, and because he wasn't yet ready to face Charles again, he took the opportunity to relieve his bladder and wash his hands, drying them slowly. The little man in the mirror accused him of cowardice, and he looked away, thinking of the solitary comfort of his bed.

When he at last opened the door, he wasn't at all surprised to see Charles still standing on the other side of it, though he did move aside to let Larry pass into the hallway. He headed for the stairs.

"Charles, I'm going home now. It's been a long day and I have a headache."

"No you don't. Your forehead does this thing when you have a—it doesn't matter. But you're feeling better, so you should stay."

Charles was right. The headache was gone, leaving only a slight tension in his shoulders that he suspected might be permanent.

Charles followed him down the stairs, stopping him halfway by putting his hands on Larry's shoulders, and Larry shivered at the warmth, the press of Charles' fingers digging into the muscle. He wanted to find it erotic, but it was merely comforting and he forced himself not to lean back against Charles.

"That's—thank you."

Charles kept up the pressure and Larry sighed. "That feels…."

"I can make it feel better."

"Charles—oh. This is not good. Don't say that."

"After dinner we can…"

Charles trailed off, and Larry was almost glad of that. If Charles said it aloud, it would only be a promise he couldn't possibly fulfill, and Larry was quite sure that would have a disastrous effect on a relationship that might, at this point, be still salvageable.

"I should go."

"You should stay. Dad's got a meeting at the community center tonight, and Don's going back to work after dinner. And you could stay and we could…"

And again, Charles could not bring himself to say it. "Charles—your father's right. I've made a mistake. An error in judgment in burdening you with something that you—"

"No—you were right. I'm _glad_ that you—"

"Brought it to your attention?" Larry shot back, surprised at the bitterness in his own voice.

Charles took his hands off Larry's shoulders and Larry jogged the rest of the way down the stairs, hoping Charles would leave it at that and leave him _alone_. But Charles followed him down to the bottom, standing on the last stair in what Larry was sure was a move to maximize his slight height advantage.

"Larry, I'm sorry I said that. But you know that's not what I meant."

"No—you were being honest." Larry realized that it was silly to think Charles would have run off to his room and stay there, however convenient that might have been.

"No, _you_ were being honest and I was being an idiot."

"Idiocy and honesty are not mutually exclusive," Larry noted, though he wasn't at all sure who he was describing.

"Dad says we're behaving like a couple of mooning teenagers."

"And I appreciate his candor about as much as I appreciate your pity."

But any further cutting insult he had planned was muted by Charles' sudden proximity as he came to stand on the landing beside Larry, his intense dark eyes looking at Larry appraisingly as Charles tipped his head to the side, looking for all the world like he was about to, well, Larry didn't want to speculate, but did shut his eyes, and the kiss came, not on the cheek or forehead, as he had anticipated, but on his mouth, Charles' beard rough against his face.

He nearly lost his footing and reached out blindly for the banister, but Charles's arms came around him, steadying him, and the kiss moved from the possibly platonic to the decidedly romantic, with Charles pressing him against the stairway wall.

It didn't last long enough, though time was, indeed, relative.

"What does _that_ mean?" he asked as Charles pulled away from him slightly.

"I think that means it's not a problem."

And again, Charles tipped his head to the side, and again, Charles kissed him, and this time, Larry himself pulled away.

"Now where have I heard _that_ before?"

"Larry, I made a lousy teenager the first time, and I'm really not interested in going there again."

Charles looked past Larry and into the room and Larry realized they were not alone. Don cleared his throat, looking amused, his beer raised slightly as if in a toast just before he took a long drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and nodding. "He really was pretty embarrassing back then, Larry. Glasses, short hair, pimples…. You should have seen—actually, I guess you _did_ see it."

Charles protested, "Don—" drawing his name out and sounding quite a bit like he had fifteen years ago.

Larry looked away, embarrassed at the reminder of just how long he'd known Charles, and how long he'd felt this way, and worse yet, now everyone _knew_ that, which made it infinitely more unbearable. He had been hopeful that perhaps Charles would let it go, but realized it was unlikely if Don and Alan were planning to raise the issue of chronology at every turn. Charles _could_ do the math, after all. As could Don, apparently, as evident from his raised eyebrows. It seemed pointless to protest that, at first, his passion had been entirely provoked by Charles' _mind_ , as the rest of him, in all his adolescent awkwardness (and Don was entirely right on that count), was somewhat less than appealing to Larry who was, after all, a grown man at the time. Though perhaps the Family Eppes knew that without his saying so, as no one had yet come out and accused him of perversion. Yet. Adolescent mooning, notwithstanding.

Larry liked Don—he really did—granted, not quite as much as he liked Alan, and not anywhere near what he felt for Charles himself, but he did consider Don to be a standup guy in his own way, admirable not only for his dedication to his family but with his work. 

Even so, the urge to retaliate was pressing.

Larry grabbed hold of Charles' curls and pulled him in for a kiss before Charles could protest, hoping like hell that Charles was sincere in his desire.

But by the time he pulled back, he'd very nearly forgotten about Don, lust overpowering all thoughts of vengeance. Charles' cheeks were flushed, his eyes dilated, and though both those impressions might well have been just the darkness of the stairwell, he preferred to think that he was the cause. He was certainly responsible for the beginnings of an erection he felt pressed into his hip. Charles stared at him intensely, licking his lips and then smiling shyly.

Larry smiled back and glanced over at Don, who looked annoyingly unruffled. Larry wasn't sure whether to be proud of him or resentful.

But Don spoke again, easing some of Larry's anger with the warmth Larry heard in his voice. "That's a helluva thing he has for you, Charlie. You should probably try not to screw it up."

Charles blushed, but looked at Larry and smiled again.

"Right." Don cleared his throat, at last showing signs of discomfort. "Listen bro, I'll go check on the food. Larry, don't talk him into or out of anything while I'm gone. Dinner should be in a few minutes. Dad's just putting together the rest of it. And you two just— don't count on pursuing this any farther tonight, if you know what I mean. I might need you both to come in to the office. We might have a lead on our Hex Man. I'd like to get him _before_ the bastard strikes."

Charles whispered, not too quietly, "Hex Man? What is he, a Superhero?"

And Larry mouthed back, "SuperFed," and Charles laughed, glancing down and taking Larry's hand in his own, starting to swing their conjoined hands back and forth, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that Larry found reassuring. 

Even so, Larry stopped the hand-swinging, finding it mildly annoying, and more than a little reminiscent of high school courtship rituals and embarrassing public displays of affection, which he was generally against, though for some reason, with Charles, he found himself oddly prone to them. He assumed—and hoped—that it would pass, and he might be able to look at Charles without feeling so ridiculously happy. He much preferred quiet contentment, with the occasional bout of unrestrained carnality. Though he again suspected that, with Charles, there would be many such occasions in which to indulge in the carnal, and far fewer occasions for quiet.

"Dinner is served!" Alan's call was loud enough to startle them both, and he half-expected Charles to move away from him, but he didn't.

He considered that Charles's sudden, romantic giddiness might be the result of Don's giving them another chance to do good work, though perhaps Charles was sufficiently distracted by happiness that he was momentarily not thinking about the very real possibility that between them, they might still not be able to get to the killer in time. But Larry decided that it didn't matter, because he _was_ going to help Charles solve the case, and stop Hex Man before he killed again, and in the process leap tall buildings in a single bound, as necessary, even if it meant staying up all night to do it and landing flat on his face in the process. Because in the end, it really did appear that he _was_ going to get to test out his new bed with Charles, though they might well be too exhausted to do more than sleep in it.

Alan called for them again and he heard Don yell, "Hey—bring out some napkins," and Larry caught Charles' eye just as Charles began to swing their hands together again, bumping shoulders with him as they headed toward the door.

  


The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kate, whose beta reads help me see the emotional effect of the lines without ever losing sight of such necessities as punctuation and grammar and sex. And thanks to Larry and the Eppes family, whose voices are stuck in my head and will not leave. I can think of few families with whom I'd rather spend the holidays.


End file.
